Chapter 12 - Charlotte
Charlotte
The warmth of his hand against her wrist stayed with her, even as she woke.
For one precious moment, she could still feel it.
Those slow circles his thumb had traced, the calloused pad dragging across her pulse point with a gentleness that had somehow anchored her.
The sensation felt so real that her fingers flexed against the sheets, reaching for warmth that evaporated the moment consciousness returned, leaving her alone in a bed that suddenly felt far too empty.
Three nights since Penrose Hall, and William Fletcher had become a persistent presence in both her sleeping and waking hours.
She had tried to be practical about it, tried to remind herself that wanting something she couldn’t have while Penrose still had his hold over her was a cruelty she’d rather not inflict on herself.
And during the day she maintained the pretense of control.
Would catch herself replaying their conversations and redirect her thoughts.
Would remind herself that stumbling into his arms had been an accident, even if she’d stayed there longer than strictly necessary, even if his hand against her back had made her think she wouldn’t mind staying considerably longer.
But sleep stripped away her defenses. In dreams she couldn’t stop herself from conjuring him, from feeling his presence in that closet, from hearing the timbre of his laugh. Worse still was that Spanish phrase, half remembered and just out of reach no matter how many times she tried to grasp it.
Charlotte rolled onto her stomach with a frustrated sound and reached beneath the pillow for the grammar book.
Keeping it there had become habit, as if proximity might somehow transfer the answer into her sleeping mind.
She opened it to the marked page and looked at the margin she had been filling, crossing out and filling again, her handwriting growing smaller and more desperate with each attempt.
After all of it—three evenings, two grammar books, and one very unhelpful dictionary—she had managed to remember a single word. Noches.
Everything around it had dissolved, leaving her with one word and the maddening certainty that the rest had once meant something she very much wanted to know.
Charlotte had never liked leaving puzzles unsolved, and this one was proving particularly vexing, though she suspected that had less to do with the words themselves and more to do with who had said them.
A sharp knock interrupted her thoughts.
“Miss Charlotte?” Annie’s voice carried an urgency that made Charlotte’s stomach clench with dread. “Begging your pardon, miss, but there’s been correspondence.”
Charlotte let the book fall closed and remained where she was for a long moment, reluctant to face whatever waited beyond her door.
Correspondence at this hour was rarely good news, and she had a very good idea of who had sent it.
Through her window, she could hear Berkeley Square already alive with morning activity.
“How many?” she asked, though she dreaded the answer.
Annie took Charlotte’s response as invitation to enter, slipping through the door. “Lady Jersey’s arrived already, miss. And…” She swallowed hard. “Lord Penrose has sent four notes since yesterday.”
Charlotte’s chest tightened. She could see him, satisfaction curling his lips as he sealed each envelope, already counting his victory. To anyone else, such devoted attention might seem romantic, a besotted suitor unable to contain his passion. But Charlotte knew better.
“There’s more, miss.” Annie moved deeper into the room, clutching a handful of letters against her apron.
“Lady Ashworth, Lady Rutland, even Viscountess Blackwood has sent her congratulations.” She approached Charlotte’s writing desk and set the correspondence down carefully, the cream-colored envelopes fanning across the mahogany surface.
“And…” Annie’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“Word from the market is that Lord Penrose’s cook was there at dawn, ordering provisions for an engagement celebration. ”
An engagement celebration. As if the bride’s agreement were already secured, her feelings an afterthought to be managed later.
Charlotte’s fingers twisted in the bedsheets as fury and helplessness warred in her chest. She wanted to tear every letter in half, to send the pieces floating from her window like confetti for someone else’s celebration.
“Miss?” Annie’s voice carried a note of concern as she stared at Charlotte’s hands.
Charlotte followed her gaze and realized her fingers were still twisted in the bedsheets, knuckles white with tension. She forced herself to release the fabric, smoothing the wrinkles she’d created as she summoned what she hoped resembled a reassuring smile.
“Thank you for bringing the letters, Annie. I think… I think the blue silk will do nicely today.”
Annie smiled shyly and began working in silence, methodically brushing Charlotte’s hair with gentle strokes.
Through the thin walls, Charlotte could hear the household stirring with unusual activity.
Rapid footsteps echoed in the corridor, punctuated by hushed conversations and the persistent rap of messengers at their door.
Charlotte’s gaze drifted to her mother’s pearls, gleaming softly in their velvet box. The sight of them made her pause.
“Annie,” she said suddenly. “What’s today’s date?”
Annie’s brush stilled for a moment. “April fifteenth, miss. Why do you—“ She broke off, understanding dawning. “Oh, miss. I’m so sorry. I should have remembered.”
Five years. Five years to the day since her mother had slipped away. Of all the days for Lord Penrose to press his suit, of all the mornings to wake surrounded by demands for her surrender.
Charlotte’s reflection began to blur in the vanity mirror, her mother’s face seeming to shimmer behind her own features.
The walls of her bedroom suddenly felt like a sanctuary she never wanted to leave.
Outside, rain began to patter against the windows, then grew harder, drumming against the glass as if the very sky was weeping with her.
She wanted to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over her head, and let the world rage on without her. Just for today. Just this once.
“It’s all right,” she managed, though the words felt like glass in her throat.
She stood slowly, her limbs heavy as if she were moving through water, the brush strokes stopping as she rose. She couldn’t even tell if Annie had finished with her hair. Everything felt distant and unreal as she made her way toward the door.
Her hand moved without conscious thought, gathering the pile of letters from her writing desk as she passed. The envelopes felt smooth and cool beneath her fingers as she stroked them absently, one thumb tracing the elegant scripts while she descended the stairs.
Halfway down, she shuffled through them, the names blurring into meaningless ink on expensive paper. Then a familiar handwriting made her stop. Sophia’s gentle script seemed to glow against the cream envelopes, a single warm note in a chorus of demands.
She paused at the bottom of the stairs, turning the letter over to break the seal.
“I do hope that’s Lady Jersey’s letter you’re opening, Charlotte.”
The sharp voice shattered Charlotte’s fragile refuge.
She looked up to find Aunt Margaret watching her with barely concealed impatience, already dressed and prepared for the day’s engagements.
A small frown creased Charlotte’s brow—had her aunt truly forgotten what day this was, or did she simply consider grief another inconvenience to manage?
“I thought we agreed to read Lady Jersey’s correspondence together,” Charlotte said carefully, slipping Sophia’s letter behind the others.
“Your father has already left for the day,” Aunt Margaret replied briskly, straightening her already perfect posture.
“Business, he claimed.” Her tone made it clear she knew exactly what sort of establishment her brother considered “business” on this particular date each year.
“So it falls to us to manage today’s arrangements. ”
Without waiting for a response, her aunt guided Charlotte toward the morning room with a firm hand at her elbow.
The familiar space felt oppressive today, the sunlight streaming mercilessly through windows that highlighted every faded patch of wallpaper, every worn thread in the carpet.
The air itself seemed to press against Charlotte’s chest, thick with grief and memory.
Charlotte stood frozen in the doorway, watching her aunt move toward the tea service. The delicate clink of porcelain grated against her raw nerves, each sound too loud, too sharp.
“Well, open it then,” Aunt Margaret commanded, not bothering to glance up from the teapot. “We haven’t all morning.”
Charlotte broke Lady Jersey’s seal with careful fingers, the paper crackling in the tense silence. She had barely glimpsed the elegant script when her aunt’s voice sliced through the air again.
“Four notes from Lord Penrose, and you haven’t touched those either. Really, Charlotte, your behavior lately—“
Something inside Charlotte snapped.
“What about my behavior?” The words tore from her throat before she could stop them. “I go to every event you demand, I dance with every gentleman you put in front of me, I sit through endless calls. What more do you want from me?”
The teapot froze mid-pour, amber liquid splashing into the delicate saucer as Aunt Margaret’s head snapped up. Shock flickered across her features, then her voice turned to steel.
“You truly don’t see it, do you?” She set the teapot down so hard the cups rattled.
“Every interaction with Lord Penrose, you look as though you’re enduring torture.
Your face when he calls. The way you flinch when he takes your arm.
You may go through the motions, Charlotte, but your distaste for the man radiates from you like heat from a fire. ”